


What Happens In Lórien (Stays in Lórien)

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bromance, Bromance to Romance, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Elf Culture & Customs, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Interspecies, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Just Married, Language Barrier, M/M, One True Pairing, One-Sided Relationship, Oops, Sindarin, So Married, True Love, accidentally married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:19:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>…wherein Legolas expresses his misgivings over his own immortality, apologizes for unfounded prejudices, and confesses his undying love for a certain Dwarf and asks to spend the rest of his life with him.</p><p>And in which Gimli doesn’t understand emotional outbursts in Silvan, a word of love songs in Sindarin, or wedding vows in formal Doriathrin. So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> …and in which emotional Elves forget to use Westron.

It is—I know it is—rude of me, but I cannot help it. I have lamented, I have wept, I have mourned the loss of Mithrandir, and now with my new-found friend I must laugh, and he—he!—for his part must learn to forgive me.

“Bloody, fucking Elf!” my Dwarf grunts, reddening under the thick fur of his face, angry as an autumn wind. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“I—oh, do you not see?” I laugh like a young Elfling—I feel so young again!—discovering the delight of starlight on still water, of the new green of each new leaf in every spring. I ought to get up, to help him stand as I have helped him fall, I ought to thank him for trying to climb the mallorn with me when he is so inclined to stay on his stout legs on the ground, I ought to apologize for his hurt, but instead—instead!—I laugh. And the wonder of laughter makes me laugh anew.

“Mahal’s great cock, Elf!” he fumes. “See what, you stupid creature?”

“Us two! We look—oh, forgive me—but we look—if any should see—do you not think—“ and the thought has me laughing, breathless, clutching at him helplessly, and it is good to laugh, to cast aside sorrow, to forget loss and fear in the land of Lórien where my people once wandered. For if any should see us, fallen as we are, entangled together, would they not think—should they not think—that we were lovers?

 [An Elf and a Dwarf! Is that not ridiculous? Absurd? Who—having made such a mistake—could help but laugh?]

“Fucking Elves,” he grunts. “Bloody, fucking Elves. Mad, that’s what you are. The damned lot of you.”

“Forgive me, friend Dwarf!” I beg him, helpless with mirth, with joy, with delight, and I tell myself it is this forest, these new trees, the smell of freshly-fallen snow and golden leaves, the sound of water, the pale light of stars, this sudden release from sorrow that causes me to cling to him. And in his eyes—his earthen eyes!—I see my mirth reflected, see him struggle not to laugh himself, see that fierce stubbornness that holds him to the darkest of roads when all hope and light have gone, his need to have the final word, the last laugh, his greed and generosity, his gentleness…

[An Elf and a Dwarf! Is that not ridiculous?]

“Mahal’s great cock, Elf! Durin’s balls!” he groans, gritting his teeth under the shadow of his bristling beard. “Move your fucking knee or my ax will find your pretty, singing skull!”

I roll away, still laughing, I care not for the cold of snow, for the golden leaves that catch in my hair. I am alive—alive!—after so much horror and darkness, and the world is beautiful and young though this winter of shadow may never end.

[An Elf and a Dwarf! Is that not ridiculous?]

“Bloody, fucking Elves…” He is crowned with hair as red as holly-berries, like a summer sunset, glittering with the last golden rays of daylight, but there are glints of snow, of ice that belie the cold to come. His eyes are pools of laughter, yet lined, he is warm—so warm, so alive!—and yet dying, a leaf caught in the current, soon to be swept down the stream, a hoary moss flower draped over stone in winter that has blossomed too early to survive the spring. And he is—Oh, but he is!—kind, and brave, and beautiful.

[An Elf and a Dwarf, is that so ridiculous?] 

And I am golden, laughing, alive, and he is here with me in the land of Lórien and I love him.

...Anguish. 

Horror.

Dread.

Grief. Loss. Sorrow beyond sorrow. The shadow falls. All is ash. I am extinguished. I cry out,“O, Star Queen, Star Kindler!” But I am lost. She does not hear me. How could any? What hope do I have? He is dying, dying before my eyes, even as I watch him he ages and fades. I am standing still, and he is slipping through the streams of time like water and wind through outstretched fingers. O, Manwë! O, Ulmo! Will you not let me hold him even this once? O, Mandos, so cruel! Will you not release him?

…O, Aulë, Aulë! I have loved him whom I should not. I have turned my heart to your son—your beautiful, beloved son who you covet—and no payment will you ever accept: you will have the work of your hands and in your jealousy you will not relent. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he will return to the clay and stone from which you formed him.

And I? I shall be undone. 

[I am no Noldo. No Peredhel. I am a Wood-Elf. I may love once, and only once.]

[…and I have loved him.]

* * *

_“Ai, Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel!”_ He falls, clutching his heart, stricken down so suddenly I fear an ambush. 

“Bloody, fucking fuck, Elf!” I crawl to him, scanning the trees. But there is no arrow, no shaft, no barb, no blood, no wound that I can see, no orcs crouching in the shadows. "Elf?" I call him. "Elf!" To think I’ve been told all my life the buggers are stoic and emotionless. Mahal’s great cock, As if! Not my Elf.

[This Elf. Not Mine. Never Mine. He is Elf. He isn’t. Doesn’t. At least not with Dwarves.]

[Best not think on it.]

One minute I’d made him laugh—Oh, that laugh, soft as silver, bright as mithril!—and the next he’s gone boneless, sobbing uncontrollably, screaming up at the stars, eyes wild, tearing his hair, disheveled and distressed as no Elf should be.

 _“Ela! Enel hrassa a sn_ _æs khavan!_ _Aban. Aban!”_

"Damn you! I don't speak your bloody gibberish, Elf!"

[And that need. That pain. It shouldn’t arouse you so.]

What did I do? What did I say? I hadn’t meant—didn’t intend—to offend. Thought we’d become fast friends, thought with the light in his eyes and the laughter on his pretty lips—if it were otherwise, if he were different, if he were anyone but Elf—that perhaps we were so and more so than merely friends.

[You are Dwarf, Gimli Glóinson. Ugly. Unwanted. How could he look on you with anything but loathing?]

“You daft, sodding Elf. I—“ but I cannot go on. I cannot say what my heart bids. Cannot do what I would, reach out, touch him—

[Comfort him. Kiss him.]

[Fuck him bloody senseless.]

But I am a Dwarf. I do not know—I cannot know—if even the most innocent of gestures might be found offensive. How could I console the likes of him, who lives forever? I am sorry. Forgive me. What, what my pretty, perfect one, has this Dwarf done to pain you so?

“Elf—“ I try again. Gently. No good. Not singing. Still sobbing.

I sigh. Say his name, say his name as I never have before. “Legolas—“

[And your name, my love, is like a prayer on my lips.]

He looks—for all I know he is not—like a lost, little child. And I remember that for all he has led us to Lórien, for all he is ancient and ageless, he has never left his Forest before, that he has never left his home, that he is alone, that he feared the flames of Durin’s Bane as much or more so than I, a Dwarf of many journeys, that the long dark of Khazad-dûm was a terror for him as I can never comprehend. I remember that I am Gimli Glóinson, smith and warrior of the Longbeards and Firebeards, of Ered Luin and Erebor, that I carry with me the names and histories and works of my people and that he—for all he is Thranduillion, for all the strength of his bow—has never once uttered his father’s cursed name nor mentioned a mother nor made himself to be any but an Elf, a simple huntsman of the Woodland Realm.

I cannot help it. Dwarrow, Man, Elf, or Orc, I would not leave any child so. I reach out. Touch his hair. It is living mithril, strands of pale golden silk beneath my hand—

He gasps. Another bright shock of tears. “Elf—?” I feared to offend. Bloody, stupid Dwarf, what did you know? He falls into me, presses himself to me, all long limbs and a tangle of hair, sobbing into my shoulder, his pretty face—those expressive eyes, those languid lips!—lost in my beard. And it is—

 [Oh, Elf, my Elf!]

—even if it is a lie, it is everything I had wanted it to be.  

[He does not cling to you in love. He clings to you in loneliness.]

[You know this. You do.]

 _“Enel hrassa a sn_ _æs khavan!”_ he chokes again. “ _Lindi hektan…Ndandan. Ndandan!”_

“Aye, that’s better, Elf,” I stroke his hair. Words. Words is good. At least he’s bloody talking.

He takes my hands. Kisses them. And if he were anything but what he is, if he were different, if he were not Elf, I would think, I would let myself hope—

 —but he is Elf. An Elf. And I have seen him kiss other Elves and even Aragorn in greeting, on fingers and faces, have seen him with these bloody Galadhrim, his long-lost kin, as they clasp hands, foreheads, even ears.

“ _Elo! Na vedui, henion. i-Ind-nîn glinna, a hí laston bengorgor_ ,” he sings to me, eyes still tearing, and kisses me. Sweetly, softly, chastely—clumsily, even!—he kisses me on both cheeks, then mouth. “ _Nae, Im edhel! Ach gin melin!”_

[Damn him.]

[He does not know—cannot know, must never know—what it costs you not to claim those lips, that mouth, that tongue, his tight Elven arse for your own.]

“If you say so,” I grunt, hiding myself and patting his head. “Daft sodding Elf.”

 _"Gin cilin, maethoreg, muinthoreg, melloneg, melethroneg,”_ he chants, touching my ears shyly, his grey eyes shining like the starlit sky, tears sparkling like the still waters of Kheled-zâram, where Durin’s crown is forever hung.

[And indeed, you would trade it and all the jewels in Erebor, surrender the Seven Rings and Arkenstone just to know what those tears, those lips might taste like.]

“Bloody stupid Elf,” I say instead.

“ _A, Gimli!”_ he sighs, still singing _. “I-chend-nîn ‘weriannen—Ech vain, Meleth Velithath!”_ Singing now. Singing is better. I return the touch. Anything to make him smile, to pretend, however much a lie, that he smiles for me—

 _“Nin ú-chortho awarthad dhe egor danad od aphaded dhe,”_ he sings sweetly.   _“Man sad revial, reviathon, man sad dorthal, dorthathon._ ”

…he is waiting, I finally realize. Waiting for what, I wonder, waiting for me? But those expectant eyes must be answered, that pregnant pause must be filled.

[The sooner, the better. My poor cock is bloody uncomfortable. Need to ditch the daft creature and do what Dwarves do best.]

“As you wish, Elf,” I fear I say too much, reveal too much, shame myself, but he does not notice.

_“i-Nostedh i-nosten, adh i-Valinedh i-Valinen.”_

I nod. “Of course, Elf.”

_“Man sad gwanthal, ennas ‘wanthathon adh ennas Im ‘wathrannen.”_

“If you say so, Elf,” I shrug.

His soft hands tighten—the strength of them!—and his gaze grows fierce. _“Enni tôl acharn en-Ilúvatar ci nad ach ngurth rista ni a dhe.”_

“Yes, Elf,” I roll my eyes. “‘Ni a dhe’, whatever you wish.”

[Shit.]

[Stop.]

[Shouldn’t say.]

Ilúvatar. Wait, isn’t that—? Don’t speak of word of his damned Sindarin, but I’m pretty bloody sure that’s…well, not my Maker, but _his_. “Er, what, Elf?”

 _"A! Sí nin mibo, maethoreg, melethroneg,”_ he whimpers, fingers stroking my ears, winding through my beard, uncertain and shaking _._

“Elf—?”

 _“A! Sí nin melo, nin melo hî!”_ he begs me, breathless. _“Go-gonathrathanc hí nuin ‘iliath a gelaidh, adh i-lanthir Nimrodel, or i-chaust-hen od los a lais, no i-mellyrn chell, in-elin gelair, i-nîn ‘linnol adh i-Melain vin cenir. Nae! Ú-bedo_ _bestathanc ir nin ydyngig an ndôr sîdh!”_

“Elf—?!” The flash of his throat. Pounding heart. Flushing ears. Exquisite eyes as wide and wet as any doe’s, long lashes dewed and frosted, dripping with fear, delight, desire. You'd think he was--

[Surely not. Hard as stone. Bloody distracted. Imagining things.]

[Must be the fucking trees. Or stars.]

[Or SOMETHING.]

[Something to get him so…so damned _Elven_.]

[…surely?]

 _“i-Chathod-nîn,”_ he strokes my fingers over his strange ears, gasping as if he has come _, “i-chervenn-nîn…”_

{...}

[?!]

[!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!]

…Oh.

[FUCKING FUCKING FUCK. AZAGHÂL’S PRICK. MAHAL’S GREAT COCK. DURIN’S BALLS.] 

Stupid, singing Elf. Daft, sodding Elf. Damned horny Dwarf. He wasn’t just babbling his usual bloody Elvish nonsense, that incessant singing that hasn’t stopped since Rivendell. This—whatever the fuck _this_ was—was different. He called on the Maker to witness this-- _whatever the bloody fucking fuck this was_.  Gimli Glóinson, what have you just agreed to?! 

“…er, Elf?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

Translations and the like: 

1 _Ai, Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel!_

(Sindarin) "Oh, Oh, Star-Queen, Star-Kindler!"

2 _Ela! Enel hrassa a sn_ _æs khavan!_  * _Aban. Aban!_

(Reconstructed Nandorin/Silvan) “Behold! Between a precipice (lit. "sharp fang") and spearpoint I stand. *I will not. I will not!”

*Lit. "I refuse", same root as 'Avari'. It has a very strong, negative connotation for the Sindar and other Elves of the journey which would not be lost on Legolas.

3 _Enel hrassa a sn_ _æs khavan!_ _Lindi hektan…Ndandan. Ndandan!_

(Reconstructed Nandorin/Silvan) “Between a sharp fang and spearpoint I stand.  I abandon *my people…I turn back. I turn back!”

*The Nandorin Elves didn't call themselves that, they called themselves the Lindar, "the Singers". Nandor/Danas ("Those who turn back") were terms coined by the Elves that crossed the Misty Mountains on the road to Valinor for those that remained behind. It has a very strong, negative connotation for the Sindar and other Elves of the journey which would not be lost on Legolas.

4 _Elo! Na vedui, henion. i-Ind-nîn glinna, a hí laston bengorgor._ _  
_

(Sindarin) “Oh! At last, I understand. My heart sings, and I listen now without fear."

5 _Nae, Im edhel! Ach gin melin!_

(Sindarin) Alas, I am an Elf! Yet I love you.”

6  _Gin cilin, maethoreg, muinthoreg, melloneg, melethroneg,_

(Sindarin) I choose you, my warrior, my brother, my friend, my lover.

7 _A, Gimli!_ _I-chend-nîn ‘weriannen—Ech vain, Meleth Velithath!_

(Sindarin) O, Gimli! My eyes have been cheated—you are beautiful, Love of all Loves! 

8  _Nin ú-chortho awarthad dhe egor danad od aphaded dhe._ _Man sad revial, reviathon, man sad dorthal, dorthathon._

(Archaic Doriathrim/West Beleriand influenced Sindarin) “Do not urge me to abandon you or to turn back from following you. Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay."

9 _i-Nostedh i-nosten, adh i-Valinedh i-Valinen._

(AD/WBiS) Your people shall be my people, and your Gods will be my Gods."

10 _“Man sad gwanthal, ennas ‘wanthathon adh ennas Im ‘wathrannen.”_

(AD/WBiS) "Where you die, there I will die and there I will be buried."

11 _Enni tôl acharn en-Ilúvatar ci nad ach ngurth rista ni a dhe._

(AD/WBiS) "May the vengeance of the Father come to me if anything but death should part me from you.”

12 _A! Sí nin mibo, maethoreg, melethroneg._

(Sindarin) "Oh! Now kiss me, my warrior, my lover."

13 _A! Sí nin melo, nin melo hî!_

(Sindarin) "Oh, now love me, love me here!"

14 _Go-gonathrathanc hí nuin ‘iliath a gelaidh, adh i-lanthir Nimrodel, or i-chaust-hen od los a lais, no i-mellyrn chell, in-elin gelair, i-nîn ‘linnol adh i-Melain vin cenir. Nae! Ú-bedo 'bestathanc ir nin ydyngig an ndôr sîdh'!_

(Sindarin) "Let us entangle together here under the starlit sky and trees, by the waterfall of Nimrodel in this bed of snow and leaves, let the naked mallorn, the brilliant stars, the singing waters and the Valar see us. Alas! Do not say '*we will be wed when you bring me to a land of peace'!”

*Nimrodel's words to Amroth before they were parted. Short version? She dies. He dies. 

15 _i-Chathod-nîn, i-chervenn-nîn._

(Sindarin) "My Dwarf. My husband."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elf loves Dwarf.  
> Dwarf loves Elf.
> 
> …marrying an Elf-however unintentionally-isn't exactly what you might expect.

My love—he is—and I know he is—a Dwarf.

[I knew this, when I married him.]

 He is my Dwarf, my Delight, my Earthenstar, my Everything. But for as much as he is Everything, for as much as he is All…I, I begin to wonder—I am a horrible Elf, I should not think thus, I may love once and only once, and I have chosen him as he has chosen me—how he is not Enough.

He is not generous with his combing.

[This should not surprise me. As I have been told: He is a Dwarf. They are not generous with anything.]

[No. He is not ‘a Dwarf’. He is not some witless, cruel creature came out of stone. He is himself, and himself alone.]

Oh, he will—if I ask it of him—if I sit before him and say “please, my love”—take my hair in his hands, but he will not comb me, not properly, not with words and touches to my ears. Not with singing. Not with love. He will ease the tangling, braid my hair back the way it was—and it—it shouldn’t—but it breaks me. Does he not know that I am his? Does he not know that I am changed?

 [How can he not?]

[Or is it that he doesn’t—he does not wish—he does not care—to mark me his own?]

He does not love me with his song. Oh, but he sings! How he sings!

[Indeed I fell in love with him when first I heard him sing.]

Or at least he can, for I have heard him. But he will not sing, not now, not for me. For me he is only silent. And I know for all he has a silver or iron tongue as the situation demands, for all he has the words that I lack, that he prefers not to use them, that he will never say to me “I love you, Legolas.” He does not say, “I would see you unbound.” He is a Dwarf. It is his nature.

[But singing. Surely. Surely it would not cost him so much to sing to me.]

He does not kiss me. I did not think it would torment me so. I thought—I supposed—I assumed—I would not want to be kissed by him. Not with all that—that _beard._

[It is a fine beard, a beautiful beard, a proud beard, he insists.]

[So I suppose—I do not know, do not wish to—that others—that Dwarves—look upon him and find him beautiful?]

And, oh! It was not so pleasant to kiss him. Not at first. It was—I do not know. I have not words. I do not suppose—it would seem to me—that no Elf, not even Daeron—would have the words. We are not meant, I do not think, to kiss something so, so— _so very beardly_.

His nose is large. His beard is—prickly. But his lips are so soft. They are a surprise, a delight, a treasure, and—I find I—I cannot help myself, I must kiss them, must trace them with my fingers, it is so strange—so wonderful!—to find something so soft on him who looks so hard and strange and stern. So I kiss him, kiss him softly—gently, sweetly!—as an Elf should.

How he smiles!

[But his eyes—you know, you have seen—his eyes are sad.]

I kiss him. I kiss his hands. His face. His lips. His—Eru forgive me!—his strange, rounded ears!—but he does not kiss me. I comb him, comb him with singing and touching, with love and song, I braid myself into his hair and beard, I flush for him when he does deign to touch me, my ears hot—but he does not flush for me—not even when I kiss him so. 

[Am I not—do you not find me—will you not think me—beautiful?]

[Does the sight of me not please you? Is it—could it be—that I—I—have no beard?]

[Why do you not say so? Will you not tell me how to please you?]

And when I am done, when I have spent the night loving him, when my fingers ache from combing, my voice broken from singing, when I would lie next to him in reverie…he will not hold me. He does not want me. He pushes me away. He would rather be alone. Sleep alone. He—he would—

 —he would rather comb alone.

[I know. For I have followed him.]

[I know not now of which I am more ashamed.]

I am not Enough. All I am is Not Enough. 

[…I have never been Enough.]

I will never be Enough. Yet he is bound to me.

Oh, my poor love, I have heard—it is said—it is whispered—we look on it in shock—that mortals may, before they are pledged and braided and wed—comb alone with any they chose.

[I am a Wood-Elf. He is my husband. Why should love between two warriors be any less so than wed? I am no maid, I know we cannot—that I cannot—take him inside me, know there will be no Elflings, that we cannot Make as the Maker has made us—but is our love so different save in this alone?]

[I am a Wood-Elf. He is my husband. I say it is so. I care not what some Noldo or Sinda might think.]

[I care for no one but my Love.] 

He has combed before—this, this ‘fucking’, I have heard him speak of it.

[Loudly.]

[And at length.]

[…so he will say. Then he will laugh, and Boromir will laugh, and Merry will laugh, and Sam will fluster and shake his head…]

And I—I am a Wood-Elf, he is my husband—I must forgive him this trespass for I love him so—but I—like all my kin—have combed with none. Not alone.

[Never alone.]

 But—but am I so unskilled, my love? Do I make you so unhappy? I cannot help but wonder, would it not have been better—if such a thing were permitted, dared, dreamt of—if, if I were otherwise—would it not have been better for us both had we combed, had we known before we were wed?

It is night. And I have loved him, loved him as an Elf can—I have labored on his hair—his beard—for hours, I have taken his ears into my hands, I have sang to him of my love like springtime—and yet he leaves me. He leaves me, songless. He combs alone.

And every moment we are apart, every time he will not hold me, kiss me, comb me, every time he pushes me away, I feel as if I were fading.

[You live such a short life already, my Love. I—I would not steal from him who already has so little. I have heard that Mortals can heal from these things to find love again. And sometimes—sometimes the way you look at me, my Love—I, I wonder—I wonder if it might be better if I should.]

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elf loves Dwarf.  
> Dwarf loves Elf.
> 
> ...wherein the Lady Galadriel is a little bit of a bitch.

Nighttime.  
He comes for me again.  
Wordless. Expressionless. He leads me away.

[Mahal’s balls.]  
[Another sleepless, fuckless night you us, my friend?]

And I—I should say something, protest, should let him know my shame—I say nothing. I let him lead me away. I have decided, reluctantly decided, that anything, even this, this teasing, this torment, is better than never bloody touching him again. Moonlight, starlight, shadows and whispers of rustling leaves, the still, sure sound of rushing water of the Nimrodel. And it is—it must be—as damned bloody Elven as it could possibly be. And if he were otherwise—if we were otherwise—if he was any other but Elf, this Elf (not mine, never mine), I would think the gesture full of promise, my heart would quicken at the thought of naked flesh like naked boughs dancing stark across the wind—

[Blood Hell. Hasn’t even touched you yet and already hard as stone.]  
[Damned horny dwarf.]

  
And I know not why this particular bit of forest is so different from the (what feels like) miles on tired feet trundling along beside him…and a little behind him.

[I am a Dwarf. I appreciate the view.]

He sits.  
I sit.  
…Silence.  
He stares.  
I stare back.  
So. Another night of this, then. Another awkward night of Elf, Dwarf, and Dwarf’s cock growing silently more and more frustrated. Splendid.

Awkward. Hesitant. Shyly now, he reaches for me, trembles as he finds my hair. His hands are slender, light, brushing oh so gently over, and through, and under my beard.

  
[Damned impudent creature.]  
[Damned innocent creature. He has no idea how hard this makes you.]

And oh—Oh, my Elf—his eyes are shining, clear and bright as the stars in Kheled-zaram, long lashes setting them like living jewels against his skin, his shadowed hair smooth as molten mithril poured flowing from his face, his ears, his neck, blowing in the breeze like rushes bent along the River Running. The flash of his throat. The upturned corners of his small lips. The small flush that steals itself across his cheeks and ears like the first brush of dawn against the slopes and stones of Erebor.

He—I do not have the word. I do not know if there is one in Westron, outside his own Elven tongue—he combs me. The bloody, fucking, perfect, perfectly fuckable Elf bloody fucking _combs_ me. From root to end he combs me, unravels my braids, moves those sleek fingers through the tangled mess of me, fingertips kneading against my skin like fire, never pulling, never knotting, never tugging he combs my bristling beard and hair, runs the stands between fingers and palms to smooth them until the ragged mat of weeds that grows from my nape and jaw lays tame beneath his touch.

And still he sings. Still sings.

[Do you never stop singing, Elf?]

But the song is quiet tonight, subdued. Saddened.

 _Lhoss, rhoss, floss_  
_in-thlaw lhathradan_  
_glim elenath, linnad ‘elaidh_  
_in-thlaw lhathradan_  
_ial aew, bladad roe_  
_in-thlaw lhathradan_  
_thûl velethron_  
_faug, faug_  
_i-Îr-nîn nartha_  
_in-thlaw lhathradan_  
_Adh i-fea dartha_  
_A! Vaethor chaered_  
_gin nallon, melin, anirannen anann_  
_in-thlaw-nîn lhathradan_  
_Lhossath, in-thlossath-gîn_  
_Laston, ach ú-chenion._

 

The way he looks at me. I’ve hurt him, damn me. Hurt him. Didn’t mean to. Durin’s balls. This is unmanageable. You will have to speak of this sometime, Gimli Gloin’s son. Best do it now.

[Now, while you have the courage.]

“What, Elf?"

“I-“

“What, Elf?”

He swallows. Looks away. “Please,” he says, sighs, sings. “Please.”  
Stupid Elf. Ridiculous Elf. Bloody, fucking Elf. Please what, you stupid, singing Elf? Please, Gimli, fuck me? Please, Gimli, kiss me? Please, Gimli, hold me? These I understand. This—this, I cannot. “Bloody, fucking Elf,” I grunt. “Mahal’s great cock. Please what?”  
“I—will you not—do you not—“  
“Do not what, Elf?”  
“You do not wish—am I so—have I not—do I not—“  
“Fuck’s sake, Elf. Spit it out!”

[So much for being bloody kind.]

“Please,” he places his hair in my hands. “Just—please.”

[Durin’s balls. And they say Elves are skilled with their tongues!]  
[Damn you, Gimli Gloin’s son, that thought isn’t helping.]

I shouldn’t. Shouldn't touch him. Shouldn't comb him. I should demand an answer. Should ask him what that bloody fuck this means, this, this stars and combing and kissing and those whispered words. Should claim his lips when they next meet mine, throw him down and take him, take him hard, or turn his pretty head in my hands and force myself in his mouth.

...I don’t.

[I couldn’t.]  
[Wouldn’t.]

Elves don’t. Not with Dwarves. It would kill him.

[It would kill me.]

Not to say I am not tempted. Not to say She did not tempt me. Offered me much to betray our quest. Offered me home, the surety of Erebor, offered me my cousins alive and laughing, the line of Durin restored. She offered gold, offered jewels, offered peace and prosperity, offered the Seven Rings returned. All these She offered in just her gaze, yet I knew the words of an Enchantress and I turned these all away. Thought myself strong. Proud. True son of Durin. Smith of Mahal.

…She offered him.

[She offered you.]  
[Do you understand me, you stupid, singing Elf? She offered _you_.]

Seen him naked, bathing. Heard gasping breath in Khazad-dum. Seen eyes shining, shining in joy at sunlight or starlight, fey laughter and his dance through slaughter with nothing but that slender knife. Joked with Boromir, Merry, even Aragorn such sights could make any man—or Dwarf, or Hobbit—hard. What of it?

But those same eyes, turned to me? My touch, my hardness to make him gasp and pant and moan so? Those long limbs spread, freely offered, or wrapped tight around me? That mouth, those lips, against mine, against me? That soft throat filling as he swallows and sucks, tasting me, whimpering, whining for more? My name—my true name—as the incessant song on his sweet breath—? No. Such a thing cannot be.

She offered again.

This time not in love. In rage. In anger. Revenge. I hold you by your hair, press you into stone, and you are—for all your strength, for all your skill—powerless against me. Chains hold you. Stone scrapes you. You scream, thrash, buck as I fill you with my hate. I rape you, for all that I have lost—that We have lost. But no, no you are a companion, a walker in our Fellowship, and—dare I say it?—a friend. You are not your kin. Your father. And those debts were settled long ago. No. Such a thing will not be.

She offered again.

Seven times She offered. Seven times I refused. And each, Elf—oh, My Elf!—was more difficult than the last.

I am Dwarf. All I have, all I make is mine to gift or guard and keep with a fierce and jealous love. I am Dwarf. It is my nature. But you are neither mine to take, nor Hers to give. You belong to your Maker and yourself alone. You are safe with me, safe _from me_ —do you understand? I am Gimli Gloin’s son, not some Petty Dwarf wandering the wild, no Firebeard of Tumunzahar. I will not take what is not owed.

[I do not sow where I am unwanted.]

So I will comb you. Only comb you. If that is what you want, Elf. Content to comb you and nothing more.

[As for my needs, well, a Dwarf can see to that himself.]

My hair is thick, long, bristling, tangled. His is so smooth, so fine, so perfect beneath my broad fingers. I am soon done. There is nothing left to comb.

He sobs as my hands leave him. Clutches at me. Drags fingers to his strange ears.  
“Please,” he begs—because this is, it is _begging_ —“please, more.”

I’m not doing it right. Whatever the bloody fuck this is, I’m not doing it right. Shit. Elf not happy. Elf sad. No song.  
“Elf,” I begin. “Elf—“ If I make you so damn unhappy, why drag me here, night after night? Why not be groomed by your bloody, fucking Galadhrim and get it right?

What is this to you, you stupid Elf?  
What is it that you want?

[Not me.]  
[I am not so much a fool to believe it could be me.]

* * *

 

Whisper, whisper, whisper,  
The ears overhear  
Voices of stars, singing of trees  
The ears overhear  
Cries of birds, flapping of wings  
The ears overhear  
Breath of a lover  
thirsty, gasping  
My desire kindles  
The ears overhear  
And the soul awaits  
O! Far off warrior,  
I call to you, love you, have desired you so long  
My ears overhear  
Whisperings, your many whisperings  
I listen, yet I do not understand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein cross-cultural misunderstanding couldn't be more angsty.

I am alone.  
Far from home.  
Mithrandir is lost, and there are none now here with whom I would wish to speak.

Oh, I know that my forest is not truly far. The Southern edge of my Father’s kingdom is perhaps only a day’s journey, as the Elf runs. But between here and home lies Dol Guldur

[That is an evil place. We do not go that way.]

and the Hosts of the Enemy. I would not—could not—go home that way. And to go home any other—to take the long roads East—would lead me to strange countries I know little of. And even then on returning who knows what I may find. I feel the war—this coming war—would be over before I set foot in the forest of my kin. And who can say what—if anything—I might find? It is strange to me. Strange to think that on the border of a land so fair as Lórien that such a fortress and foe might remain. The Lady of the Wood can protect all these, like Melian of Old…and yet my people—her husband’s kin—have been hunted and slaughtered.

…she is Noldo. She is not one of Us. Her kind butchered ours. Killed our King, left his sons for dead.

[Long my father looked for them. He bears that wound yet even now.]

Then they followed them on the long march to the Sea, and killed again. Our King they took, forced my father’s father to reign in his stead. Imladris was no House of Healing or Rest for me. I found no peace there, surrounded by Noldor. It is little wonder the folk of Lord Elrond—these Exiles—are so friendly with Men and Dwarves. Ever do they love the things of their own hands and making more so than the lives of those they claim to love.

I do not wish to speak with this Aragorn. He is a leader of Men, perhaps, but I am no man. A lover of Elves, perhaps, but I am no Noldo, no Peredhel, and my ways are as strange to him as he is to me despite his upbringing. He is welcome here, known here, a heir of Elendil, kinsman of these Noldor…when my own people knew not what awaited us on our southern borders. These Galadhrim are kinsman, yes…but they have served this Noldo Queen who calls herself only Lady. Lady, Queen, it makes no difference what she calls herself: she is, in truth, a Usurper. It is because of her and her kin that Nimrodel, Amroth, and Mithrellas her handmaiden were lost. This Celeborn, a kinsman through my father, yes: but husband to the kinslayer. My father knew him, yes; and bitter was their parting long ago in Menegroth that was before the sons of Feanor destroyed it.

…the Lady, it must be said, had already deserted to the East. Whether she knew of their treachery or was warned in advance, who can tell?

My father, my mother, my mother’s kin, they walked this forest long ago. She sang her songs in Silvan, then. These trees, these leaves, these running rivers, at least, are known to me though my eyes have never seen them. I can take comfort in this land, if not in her people.

I cannot speak with Boromir. He is proud, well loved, a warrior. And I? A simple Elf of the Woodland Realm. Son of a King, perhaps…but a King who took that title begrudgingly to lead his people when all else was lost. I am not, have not, been anything but his loyal subject. I am no Man, no Prince, no Leader. Our ways are not their ways. My father has borne the duties of command, and he will not relinquish them. He will not go into the West, not where the Valar who deserted us or the Noldor who slew us await him. Not even for the wife he loves will he forsake these shores. Forsake his people. Not even if the Shadow should fall. Not until the last Elf has left…and even then he may not come.

[We have no illusions that it will be I.]  
[I am his son. He my Elven-sire. I will obey, I will sail when I am told.]

Aragorn would be King, not out of choice, but necessity. Boromir would be King for both.  
And these merry young Hobbits? Steadfast Frodo, faithful Sam, and the other two so inseparable, so alike in merry-making and mischief even mine own eyes can scarce tell them apart? They desire nothing of Kings or Lordships. They desire only warmth and comfort of fire and full bellies of good food. It pains me to see them so sad.

[I would not. Could not. Cannot ask them. They seem so small, merely children to my eyes. I would be ashamed to ask this of them.  
[Even of Merry, who knows so much more than I.]

I would speak to both of them, if I could. Both Men and Hobbits, if such a thing were permitted. I have heard them all speak of…of love.

[Of fucking?]

But they love as mortals love. They comb with whom they wish, when they wish.  
…they comb, they love, they fuck (is this the word?) with women.

[I am a Wood Elf, no Man, no Noldo, no Peredhel. No Hobbit. I may comb with whom I chose.]  
[But once. Only once. Once ever.]  
[And I have chosen him.]

These warriors, these kings and steward’s sons, these playful young Hobbits, they do not comb with men.

[They do not comb with Dwarves.]

I am an Elf. He is a Dwarf, my comb-mate, my husband.

…and I do not know how to please him. I have combed him until I ache. I have sang until my voice is broken. I have kissed him, his hands, his beard, his lips—his ears! I have taken their strange shape and their strange piercings into my mouth, between lips and teeth as I have seen lovers do. I have done all I have known. All that I can. I have given him everything that I am, and yet he is not content. I do not please him. I do not know how.

[I had thought—assumed—he is a Dwarf—would he not prefer to comb, to be combing, than be combed by me?]  
[I do not mind. It is not a task, a chore, to comb someone so very still and lovely, even with hair so thick and full, and—and a _beard_.]  
[A, Aulë! A beard! To comb, to braid, to look into a comb-mate’s eyes while loving them? How lucky the Children of Aulë! Truly is he the Smith!]  
[I had thought—before—assumed—I would much prefer to be combed than be combing. Now it is not so!]

I have asked him. Oh—I have asked him! I have looked into his eyes while combing, questioning. I have sang to him of my confusion and despair. I have braided him and unbraided, and braided again as a warrior, lover, husband, bride, and yet he will not say to me either ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

He will not sing.  
Not even when I comb him, he will not sing.

He does not say to me, “I would see you unbound.” He does not say to me, “I love you.” He does not sing. He does not braid. He will not even unbraid me, not even let my hair loose, even this he makes me do myself. He will only comb when asked, when I unbind my own hair and place it into his hands…and even then is he quickly done.

Could it be—he is a Dwarf—could he really be so cruel?  
Could it be he does not know?  
Could it be that he is… _shy_?

But I have heard him speak of, of love. Of, of ‘fucking’ with Boromir and Merry. And they were laughing, jesting. They did not seem so shy to me! Could it be then that he is only shy with me? Perhaps he does not know—as I do not know how to love, to please, to comb a Dwarf—how to comb, to love….how, how to ‘fuck’ me? I—I try to teach him. To say to him I do not care. I sing, I sigh, I breathe for him so that he may know. I bring his fingers, his face, to my fingers, my face, my ears, my lips. I place my hair into his hands and beg him _please, please, my love, my Dwarf, my Gimli, please, again_. I bring my ears—the tips of my ears—to his nose, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his beard! that he may breathe, may bite, may kiss, may lick, may tickle until I am breathless, crying, laughing, singing for him, for him alone, for him forever—

…but he will not.  
He does not wish to comb me.  
He does not wish to kiss me.  
He—he does not wish to even touch me.  
He will not look at me.

Am I so ugly? So repulsive in his eyes? So hairless? So unskilled?  
…So unloved?

[I will not believe it. I cannot believe it.]  
[He said the words. He married me.]  
[He loves me. I know he loves me. As I love him.]

I cannot ask. Not our Companions. Not these strange Galadhrim nor Noldor.

…No. I must be brave. I must ask. I must ask now before he goes.

[I must ask him, him and him alone.]

I do not know how. “I—will you not—do you not—Gimli, meleth-nîn—“

“What, Elf?” he sighs, wiping leaves from the hem of his hooded cloak.

“You would go?” I ask him. “Now?”

“Some of us must bloody sleep,” he mutters.

But he is not going to sleep. He is going to comb. He will comb himself. He will comb alone.

[I have seen him. I have followed.]  
[He combs himself as I have combed him.]  
[He combs himself as I have never seen.]

“And—and you will not stay, perhaps?” I ask him, tilting my head so that my hair—my golden hair which he has just combed—will fall. “You will not…you cannot…you cannot hold, cannot sleep here with me?”

“Bloody fucking hell,” he states. “No. Fuck, no, Elf! I—“ he stops himself. “I can’t sleep in your bloody trees.”

“But Gimli, meleth-nîn, we could—you could—could you not?—sleep on the ground here. Next to me.”

“Bloody, fucking fuck, Elf,” he reddens. “It’s—cold.”

“But you are a Dwarf of many journeys,” I say, “you could light a fire.”

“Durin’s saggy left—!” he closes his eyes and stops his swear. “It’s more comfortable. Back at camp. Beds and all. Wouldn’t understand,” he mutters, and turns away, muttering. “Don’t…sleep. Don’t need to. Bloody Elves.”

He is, I think, lying to me. But I do not know. He is a Dwarf. “Gimli, meleth-nîn, could we not—“

 

He stops. “Not what, Elf?”

“Could we not then go back to camp?” I ask. “Together? To sleep?”

He turns. “You do not sleep.”

“But I could—revel?— _rest_ , you understand?” I press. “and I would rest next to you.”

“Mahal’s great cock, Elf!” He leaps back. “And what do you think the others might say?”

“I have heard,” I argue, “that Merry says you snore worse than Samwise, that the smell of you makes Pippin dream of pipeweed and pigsties, that Samwise would smother you with Mr. Frodo’s good feather pillow may his Gaffer forgive him, that Frodo says he will do nothing of the sort, that Aragorn says you would bring every Orc in the Wildlands to us, and that Boromir believes you could raise the dead of Rath Dinen (wherever that is) and that he hasn’t had such little sleep since his last stay at a Haradrim brothel (whatever that means).”

[And I have heard Mithrandir mutter to himself and to his pipe that you alone are worse than all the Company of Thorin Oakenshield combined, but I will not voice that now.]  
[I will not voice it ever.]

“Bloody, sodding, cocksucking—!” he kicks a snowdrift, then sits in it. “You don’t even know—!”

“In fact, I believe if I should ask them they would not mind your absence. But I am an Elf. I am silent. I cannot think they should say anything of me,” I smile and study him curiously. “Don’t even know what?”

“Nothing,” he flushes from under his red beard. “Never mind.”

I can’t understand why a word would embarrass him so. Perhaps he is embarrassed for me? “No. I do not know this word. I am not ashamed,” I explain. “The Common Tongue is not spoken in Mirkwood where my father dwells, and we are rarely on the borders. It is only with the Beornings we need it, for many do not understand our Elvish Tongue. We go rarely into Dale these days. I am not as practiced as you or the Hobbits. If the Men laugh, what of it?”

“Bloody, fucking Boromir. Bloody, fucking Elves.”

Now I am curious. And there are few things as clever—or determined—as a curious Elf. “What does it mean?”

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

“How will I learn if you do not tell me?”

He opens his mouth for an argument, but finds he has none. “Sod this, Elf. I’m not telling you.”

“Fine,” I turn away, and flip my hair as I do so that he may see how much it shines and wish to comb anew. “Then when we get to Gondor, I shall have to find one and see for myself.”

“Not bloody likely,” he scowls.

“Then I shall have to ask Boromir. Perhaps he will tell me.”

He stands. “Durin’s sagging balls, you will!”

“But Gimli, meleth-nîn,” I laugh and turn to him, “if you do neither stay with me nor take me with you, how do you intend to stop me?” But he is not pleased. He does not find me clever. He does not laugh. But I am an Elf, and he is my love, as I am his. I must be brave. “Before you leave, will…will you not comb me?”

“Fuck’s sake, Elf,” He grunts. “I just bloody combed you!”

“I—will you not comb me again?” I cannot look into his eyes. There is too much anger, too much…pain? I do not know. I look instead at the mallorn leaves between my feet. “This night. Will you not comb me again?”

“Bloody, fucking Elf,” there is that word again. I thought—perhaps not—it is not—a good thing? But he takes my hair, this time—and oh!—it is so good!—it is so good for him to reach for me, to touch me, to take my hair into his large hands! It is everything, it is all, I could be content—I am content—if he would only comb me.

But, but he isn’t—this isn’t—isn’t combing. It is…it is too rough. He is not gentle. My hair—my golden hair, my father’s Sindar hair which I have always hated—it is not so unkept, not so tangled, not so unclean that he must pull it so. His hands, his fingers, they are not smooth, they are hairy and hardened, they are calloused and worn, and he pulls, he—he scratches. I tell myself that he is clumsy. That he does not mean to. That he is a Dwarf, that he is strong. He does not intend, he does not know. He cannot mean to be hurting me. Only I am frightened, frightened, I think, like a small Elfling, too frightened to move, to speak, to say, “no, my love, please, my love, my Gimli”. I am frightened he will continue, that he will only be rougher with me, that he will become angry, angrier with me. Yet even more so I am frightened—I am terrified—I think, that he should stop.

He is…he is so strong. His arms, his hands, his fingers, holding me, combing me, pulling at me, tearing at hair, at scalp, at—at even—at finally!—my ears? And I? I feel—lost, helpless, afraid beneath his hands so. Yet—perhaps—this pain—is it—good? And oh! Oh! I did not know, I had not seen, no one had told me, that combing—that hands in hair, on ears, that touching, from a comb-mate—from a husband—’s hands, that this, even pain—could be thus?

And I sing—I must sing!—I sigh, I breathe for him, push my ears against his hands that he should know, that _this_ is combing, that _this_ is loving, that this is…is _everything_ for an Elf. That he is a Dwarf, that he did not know—that even I did not know—that combing, that comb-mates could be thus—!

“Stop that!” his hands fall from my hair.

“Ai, Gimli—“ and I am crying, crying out for him, for more—

“I said stop that!” he pushes me away.

And I—I am afraid, I am desolate, I feel that I am falling—he is so strong, he is so angry, I—I did not know—I do not know—what I have done to anger him so. And I find suddenly I am wet, laying in snow, in a drift of dirt and twig and mallorn leaves, and my hair, my golden hair—my beautiful hair which he has combed for me—is ruined.

He is angry, he is panting, his eyes are blazing, and he looks—oh, my love!—he looks every bit a Dwarf. He is my husband, my love, my Gimli, and I am afraid.

[I am afraid of you.]  
[I have never seen, had not heard, I did not know. How—could comb-mates, could married, could love—be thus?]

I have—done something. Something wrong. I have…hurt him, I think.

[He does love me, he does.]  
[He is a Dwarf. He did not know.]  
[He did not mean for me to be afraid.]

I have hurt him. I do not know how.

“Do you mock me, Elf?” And there are tears—I do not know why there should be such tears—that there could be such tears!—in his eyes. “Do you think me a fool? Do you think me blind? Do you think I do not know what I am?”

“No, no Gimli, I—“

“Then you lie,” he accuses me. “You lie to me, Elf, or you tease about things you do not understand!”

I do not understand. Lying? Teasing? “No,” I tell him. I would not lie. I would not tease. Not in this. “Gimli—“

“I am a Dwarf. I have my pride. Mahal as my witness I will not be mocked!” he is shouting, shouting now. “Not by the son of Thranduil the faithless! Have I not lost enough to you and yours, Elf!”

And, and the way he says it. Spits it. I had thought—we had spoken, all seemed—we were both—each of us—forgiven.

[I was wrong.]

I have wounded him. I do neither know how or why. I only wish for him to know, that I am—that I do—that am I afraid—

[I am afraid, my love. Afraid of you.]

—yet that I love him so, that I cannot explain, have not the words to express that I care not for what my father did to his father, or the Elves, my Elves, that were lost so his kind might reclaim their Mountain, that I am sorry, so sorry for his cousins and uncles who were killed, that his ancestors murdered my mother’s kin in Doriath long ago, that her people hunted and slaughtered them while they ran in return, that the Balrog awoke in the mountains, that the dragon came, that he is not to blame that Mithrandir is fallen, that these old feuds and bitterness and blood mean nothing, they are nothing, this Quest is nothing, compared to him.

[That I am nothing, nothing without him.]

And it hurts. Not that he has struck me, not that he has raised either voice or hand to strike me as if an enemy, but that he can see me, see me like this, that he may look at me, an Elf Uncombed, and feel nothing, no pity for me at all.

[To be Uncombed is to be Unloved.]

“I, Gimli, please—“ I beg him, clutch him. “You—you cannot leave me like this—you must, must comb me—“

“No, Elf.”

“Gimli, Gimli, please! Please! Gimli—“

“I said no!” and he shakes me, shakes me, tears his beard from my hands. “You sodding, preening Elf! I’m done with your teasing, I’m done with you. Comb yourself, or get one of your bloody Galadhrim to do it. I am done,” he chokes. “Done, you understand me, Elf? I am done.”

[We are done.]

I am—

This—I did not expect this. I am shocked. I am angry in my turn. “I—you would—you tell me—“ Comb would others? I am an Elf, I do not—I would not—I cannot!—comb with any other.

[For I have combed with him, and we have combed alone.]

“You would—would have me—comb—“

“Aye,” his face and eyes are red. “And perhaps your bloody Galadhrim can get it right, and you won’t have to play the whore.”

He leaves me, Songless. He leaves alone.

…He leaves me Uncombed.

 

I am alone.  
Far from home.  
My Gimli, my Dwarf, my Love—my Everything!—is lost to me, and there are none now here with whom I would wish to speak.

[I wish never to speak again.]


End file.
